


Falling Into Place

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's almost as if they've done all this before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Into Place

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [at my LJ](http://hoc-voluerunt.livejournal.com/29883.html) in July 2011.

            It was nearly one in the morning by the time Sherlock and John stumbled back into 221B, Sherlock recounting how he’d fooled a blackmailing ring three years ago and John alternating between giggling madly and desperately shushing them both, trying not to wake Mrs Hudson who, Sherlock insisted, could have slept through the Blitz. It was only as they stepped through the door into the living room that John realised that he hadn’t actually moved any of his things into the flat yet; funny, then, how it already felt like home.

            “Christ, I haven’t even moved my stuff in yet,” he chuckled as Sherlock hung his coat up behind the door.

            “Well, you’ll be hard pressed to find a taxi at this hour,” the detective commented, pulling off his scarf and gloves and shoving them into the pockets of his coat. “You can stay here, if you like – the bed upstairs is already made up.”

            “Excellent,” John grinned. “Though I’m not exactly tired.”

            “Digestion and residual adrenaline,” said Sherlock, his calm voice in complete contrast to the smile of agreement on his lips. “It’ll wear off soon enough.”

            There was a moment of silence, in which they simply stood in the living room and grinned – at each other, at the room, at life in general – before John spoke.

            “Tea?”

            “Thank you,” said Sherlock easily. He followed John into the kitchen, carefully clearing a small space on the counter (his mould samples were delicate, after all) and reaching up for the cleanest mugs as the doctor pulled the kettle from a cupboard – though Sherlock hadn’t told him where it was. He took a moment to reflect on the night, the only noise in the room the bubbling of the kettle and the soft sounds of sugar, milk and teabags being pulled out.

             _‘Come on John – we’re losing him!’_

            Sherlock remembered the words coming out of his mouth, he remembered the rooftop chase – but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d used an inclusive pronoun like that. And yet, it had been an entirely natural utterance, this incorporation of a virtual stranger into his work, his life, his vocabulary.

            He frowned. It was as if everything was falling into place – the right key, the final puzzle piece, the perfectly-aligned mechanisms of the gun still in the waistband of John’s trousers – until Sherlock’s life, thirty-six hours after meeting one unassuming army doctor, had changed, utterly and completely; and undeniably for the better.

            “What’s got you so quiet, then?” John’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts, spoken more to the boiling water he was pouring than to the man at his side.

            “What kind of person makes that comment to a complete stranger?” Sherlock returned, abstractly and only half-heartedly bitter.

            “Yeah, but you’re not a stranger,” said John easily.

            “Aren’t I?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “We only met yesterday.”

            “Day before,” John corrected, placing a mug of tea in Sherlock’s hand and smirking. “It’s past midnight.”

            Sherlock stared at the mug in his hand.  _He didn’t ask how I like my tea,_  he thought absently.

            “Besides,” John was saying, “we’re flatmates, now.”

            “So you  _will_  be taking the room upstairs,” said Sherlock.

            John snorted. “Was there ever any doubt?”

            Sherlock smiled, and then suddenly John was rising on his toes just slightly, his free hand coming up to cradle Sherlock’s neck as he kissed him. Barely any tongue, of course, and not a trace of face-mashing obscenity, else Sherlock would recoil in disgust, and  _how does he know my kissing preferences?_

            It took a long, very enjoyable moment for John to realise what they were doing and jerk back with a gasp. Sherlock stared at him, not offended in the least, and rather more curious than surprised.

            “I –” John started awkwardly. “I – don’t know why I did that.”

            “Neither do I,” said Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Do it again.”

            John immediately complied, leaning up again to kiss him, a bit more tentative, but just as gentle ( _and perfect,_  a well-hidden part of Sherlock’s mind decided to point out). His mug of tea was an exquisite patch of heat pressed against Sherlock’s side and seeping through his shirt – but it was nothing compared to the pliant, confident warmth of John’s chest, his hand, his mouth.

            “I don’t understand,” John whispered as they finally broke apart. “Why am I doing this?”

            “Good question,” Sherlock replied, his voice low.

            “No, Sherlock, seriously,” said John, pulling away onto his heels, his hand slipping down to the detective’s shoulder. “I have no idea why I want to do that, it just –”

            “It feels right,” Sherlock finished for him. “We’re both enjoying it, so why stop?”

             _“Because,”_ John stressed, “it’s weird, I’ve never even – not with another man, it –”

            Sherlock cut him off by placing his mug back on the counter and grasping John’s face firmly between his palms. “Stop thinking about it,” he ordered. John huffed a nervous laugh.

            “That’s rich,” he said, “coming from you.”

            Sherlock smirked, and kissed him briefly. “Fine,” he said lightly, taking up his mug once more and retreating to his bedroom down the hall. “Goodnight, John,” he called over his shoulder. “And thank you for the tea!” His final sentence was punctuated by the crisp shutting of the door, and John was left alone in the _(their)_ kitchen.

 

            (Somewhere on the South Downs, the heather rustles and a grand old oak shudders in the breeze. The beehives are empty and decrepit, and the Stradivarius is in its case, gathering dust in the wardrobe; but the old house knows it will have its inhabitants again, in due time, and begins once more to soak up the sunlight in preparation.)


End file.
